Nightfall, Neutral Evil Tiefling Rogue, five feet eight inches, one hundred fifty five pounds, Black hair and red eyes.  Nightfall is only seventeen years old, being part demon he never really had a chance, picked on bullied, he quickly tirned to a life of crime.  With a wealth of natural ability he can make himself useful to any number of gangs, and usually does.

William Thatcher, Neutral Good Human Male Bard, Twenty Two years old, five feet ten inches tall, weighing one hundred seventy pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes.  Always having been a good looking fellow, William was drawn to performing.  He was never the greatest musician or singer, while he was quite competent in those regards, he was more of a story teller, an orator.  Having William on your side in a fight is nothing short of amazing.  He can charm your enemies into surrender, or incite your allies to greatness.  He began adventuring to learn the best tales to tell.  He believed that first hand knowledge of a band of heroes would enable him to tell the best stories of all the bards in the kingdom.  He is currently a well respected member of the court of Lord Arturus, and can usually be found traveling with him as well. 

Mathelor Duskstar, Lawful Evil Cleric of the Earth Dragon, Twenty three years old, Six feet and two inches, One hundred ninety five pounds, Blonde hair with blue eyes, only out for personal gain of glory and power.  He grew up poor, never having anything of value that was his and his alone.  Day after day, he watched the clerics of the Earth Dragon in all their fine garments, and vowed to someday be one of them.  When he was old enough to enter the church he offered his body and soul to the Earth Dragon, and that was where his clerical training began.  He was an adept student, quickly surpassing his classmates in skills and spellcasting.  He was given his first suit of armor immediately after completing his clerical training.  He cleaned and polished his armor every day.  After just a few short adventures he was able to have a custom enchanted suit made for himself.  He now wears a suit of +2 spiked full plate, adorned with his holy symbol on the chestplate and on his magical shield, and spreads the word of the church to all in his path.

Altair Ustivuur is a neutral evil Tiefling character that hails from Geb.  He has traveled to Katapesh to make a name for himself.  He accidentally finds himself in the employ of Princess Almah, as a Gnoll hunter.  He is tasked with finding the lair of the pugwamps, a vile race of creatures which worship the Gnolls.  His companion, a sorcerer named Zastoran is one of his gang from his criminal enterprises.  With a quick wit and even quicker hands, Altair and Zastoran get into no end of troubles trying to eliminate the Gnoll threat.

The idea of a blog post seems like a simple one, until you begin to look at from all the perspectives.  Can I tell a good story? Hell yes! The adventures in the characters of a fantasy role playing game practically write their own novel.  There in lies the problem.  As I sit down to tell their tales, I want to do them justice, not just jot down a quick blurb, but tell the deep and interesting story to its fullest potential.  It then becomes a question of how good a writer am I?  While I think I can do a decent job telling a story, I'm not the greatest typist, I want to add flavor by uploading pics(which I have to search for and then download), which can take a significant amount of time.  I play Dungeons and Dragons weekly(actually Pathfinder currently).  The game sessions take from five to ten hours.  The amount of material produced could easily fill a small novella... EACH WEEK!  So I must apologize for not being better at keeping up with the tales of the characters.  Looking at my game bag(where I store all my gaming gear), I have quite a few characters, all of which have rich deep backgrounds, because that's the way I create them.  I will try to give each character his own post with some history and story line, but if I fail in my endeavor, please know that it is only my fault, and not that of the game.

The tales of Calendar Quickspell and Morghoul the cleric, continue, but first I must interject with a bit of history, Dungeons and Dragons was first published in 1974, I was just 5 years old at the time, but my reading skill was far beyond my years.  I read of monsters, my favorite being the werewolf from the classic Universal films, and horror stories.  It was a few years later that I first read The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, opening my eyes to the wonders of the fantasy genre.  It was while I was in elementary school that I met Anthony Dunleavy, the boy who introduced me to the world of Dungeons and Dragons.  We began with character creation, and I was hooked.  That was over thirty years ago, and I still love creating new characters and guiding through anywhere my imagination can take them.

No Rest For the Wicked

     The fact that we had no time to rest came a quite a surprise, literally.  On my first night I was awakened by screaming and the sounds of several villagers calling out for help, I leapt out of bed and grabbed my sword before running out side.  A short run to the commotion later, I was standing in front of a large obelisk,  The obelisk, a monument to the prison and the guards who dies in the fire, had been spattered with blood, written in blood on the monument was the letter "V".  After a short investigation I realized no one had seen or heard anything until a barmaid heading home saw the defiled monument and had begun screaming.  When the violent events of the night had, at least for the moment been dealt with, the stunned villagers returned to their homes and locked their doors.  The next day came with no relief in sight, I began doing some research on the possibility of ghosts and who they might be.  The distrust of the town made it difficult for me to get anything done.  Everywhere I went I was shut out like a leper.  The only place I was able to accomplish anything significant was in the library of my old mentor.
     I found that the prison was well known for housing some of the worst criminals in the area, but generally never for more than a few months.  Harrowstone was well known as the last stop in many a criminals lives.  The fire itself was a bit of a mystery, the warden's wife was killed in the fire, but no one knew why she was there.  The warden, Lyvar Hawkran, and all of the guards on duty were also killed.
     Since I was unable to find anything conclusive, I decided to stake out the desecrated monument, hoping to catch the vandal returning to the scene of the crime.  I spent the rest of the day preparing for a night of restlessness.  I ate, read, studied my magic, and decided a nap might be a good idea.  After dark I gathered my weapons and stole quietly to a spot where I could observe the monument from a distance.  Time passed slowly waiting for something, anything to happen.  Being half-elven made the wait a bit easier, you see elves live a long time, and must learn patience from an early age.  While I was not raised by elves, I do have some of that patience trained into me.  My patience finally paid off, just after 1:00 a.m. I heard someone coming toward the monument.  I thought I had hidden myself well, but when I heard my quarry turn and run I knew I would have to give chase.  Springing from my hiding spot, I ran flat out after the figure.  As I closed in on him from behind, a flash of movement to the side caught my eye.  Just as I was about to reach out and grab the would be vandal, a large hulking figure smashed into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.  I yelled for both figures to stop, neither listened.  As they stood, locked in combat, I realized that the man I had been chasing was one of the townspeople that had attacked us during the funeral, the other was what appeared to be a half-orc in battle gear, dressed for a fight.  "Stop" I shouted.  "You fool! Can you not see this man is possessed?" replied the half-orc in a snarl.  After looking again at the townsman, I noticed his eyes were completely white.  "He'll kill you elf, defend yourself!" cried the half-orc.  With that warning the townsman attacked, rushing at me, slashing with a blood-soaked razor.  I was unable to completely avoid the attack.  A large gash opened on my buckler arm.  I reached inward to my spells that I had committed to memory, and with the grace of years of diligent practice,  traced the arcane runes for my Frostbite Spell.  Steam began to form around my hand, like breath on a winters morning, it turned ice blue in an instant.  I reached out with my frozen fingers and touched the possessed man, he staggered from the cold as it seeped into him, but quickly recovered and attacked again.  The half-orc took my attack as an opportunity, flanking the would be killer, and smashing him in the back with a brutal looking mace.  "Don't kill him." I shouted.  The half-orc just looked at me and snorted derisively, "Why not? He'd kill us both if he had the chance."  While he was distracted, and injured, I whirled in for another touch with my blue frosted fingers.  It was enough, barely.  I saw his eyes close and limbs go limp as he fell unconscious.  When I turned the half-orc had once again disappeared into the night.  This was how I first met Morghoul the Cleric.

The Will and the Tasks That Followed

The reading of the will was a somber affair but in short order we came to the crux of the matter.  Petros bequeathed all his worldly possessions to his daughter, but he did have a few more tasks for me to complete.  He spoke of a collection of dangerous and valuable  tomes he had collected over his years of study and requested that I deliver them to the University of Lepidstadt.  He then asked for his greatest favor, to delay our journey to Lepidstadt for a month in order to ensure the safety and security of his only daughter Kendra, to aid her in settling his affairs.  It was to be a greater request than he could have ever imagined.  After the reading of the will, Kendra retrieved the items the Professor wanted us to deliver along with his journal, I have attached some of his specific notations.


Ten Years Ago:
The Whispering Way is more than just a cabal of necromancers. I see that now. Undeath is their
fountain of youth. Uncovering their motivation does not place me at ease as I thought it might.
Their desire to be eternal simply makes them more dangerous.
Two Months Ago:
It is as I had feared. The Way is interested in something here in Ravengro. But what could it be?
One Month Ago:
Whatever the Way seeks, I am now convinced their goal is connected to Harrowstone. In retrospect,
I suppose it all makes sense—the stories they tell about the ruins in town are certainly chilling
enough. It may be time to investigate the ruins, but with everyone in town already being so worked
up about them, I’d rather not let the others know about my curiosity—there’s plenty of folks
hereabouts who already think I’m a demonologist or a witch or something. Ignorant fools.
Twenty Days Ago:
It is confirmed. The Way seems quite interested in something—no, strike that—someone who was
held in Harrowstone. But who, specifically, is the Way after? I need a list of everyone who died
the night of the fire. Everyone. The Temple of Pharasma must have such a list.
Eighteen Days Ago:
I see now just how ill prepared I was when I last set out for the Harrowstone. I am lucky
to have returned at all. The ghosts, if indeed they were ghosts (for I did not find it prudent to
investigate further) prevented me from transcribing the strange symbols I found etched along the
foundation—hopefully on my next visit I will be more prepared. Thankfully, the necessary tools to
defend against spirits are already here in Ravengro. I know that the church of Pharasma used to
store them in a false crypt in the Restlands at the intersection between Eversleep and the Black
Path. I am not certain if the current clergy even know of what their predecessors have hidden down
below. If my luck holds, I should be able to slip in and out with a few borrowed items.
Seventeen Days Ago:
Tomorrow evening I return to the prison. It is imperative the Way does not finish. My caution
has already cost me too much time. I am not sure what will happen if I am too late, but if my
theory is right, the entire town could be at risk. I don’t have time to update my will, so I’ll
leave this in the chest where it’ll be sure to be found, should the worst come to pass.


His last entry was made on the same day his body was found.
I had no idea that there would be no thirty day lull to rest, the happenings began almost immediately...

The Funeral of Petros Lorrimor

     After arriving in the wary town of Ravengro, I find my way to the Restlands, the towns cemetery.  There I gaze upon the beauty of Petros' only daughter, Kendra, now twenty five.  She is sad at the loss of her father.  This is obvious by her puffy eyes, and tear streaked face.  She looks kindly at me, recognizing me from our past meetings.  After offering my condolences she asks if I would be a Pall Bearer for her fathers casket.  I agree with no hesitation.

     On the journey to his final resting place our group was accosted by a large group of locals.  No one wanted a confrontation, but it seemed it was not to be avoided. As a seasoned adventurer the locals proved little trouble.  I cast frostbite on the first attacker, stopping him in his tracks.  I drew my blade with lightning speed, and used the pommel of my sword to smash the bridge of the nose of the next man. The rest quickly saw that they were outclassed and ran off.  After speaking with Kendra, I came to understand that the attack was out of fear and ignorance of her father's work.  I was greatly angered by the interruption of a good mans funeral.

     The rest of the ceremony was completed without further interruption, it was presided over by Father  Grimburrow, the local Cleric.  After the sad conclusion to my friends funeral, Kendra requested that I return to her house, (so recently her father's) for a drink, and to hear the reading of the Last Will and Testament.  I had no idea how things would progress from there...

Harrowstone's History

The town of Ravengro is well known for it's famous prison, Harrowstone. The townspeople have all learned to be very cautious of outsiders, usually when someone new came to town he was either with a group escorting a new prisoner, or some ne'er do well intent on trying to break someone out of the famous prison. Nearly fifty years ago there was a great fire, which reduced the massive prison to a hulking ruin that sits not far outside the town proper. This is where Ravengro's misfortunes began. Shortly after the fire, reports of strange noises and odd sightings were reported in and around the ruined Prison, in the years that followed many have tried to put the spirits to rest, others just seek to understand what the dead are trying to communicate. My friend and mentor, Professor Petros Lorrimor, was one such academic. His research into the occult is what lead to his eventual murder at the hands of an evil cult, this is where I entered the story.

How it all began.

Our latest adventure was a hard fought battle to the end of our current quest.  Let's just say it all started quite some time ago when my mentor and friend Professor Lorrimor was killed by agents of the Whispering Way.  I traveled to the town of Harrowstone for the funeral. There I met his strikingly beautiful daughter Kendra, and it's been all downhill from there...